Deer
by Masked Creator
Summary: "Do it. I deer you." Young Ayala, of District 10, is reaped under suspicious circumstances. Her brother, born of a different father, has also been reaped as tribute. And she had just witnessed a conversation pertaining to that! In a world where the Hunger Games continue by decree of Katniss Everdeen, it is up to a 'deer' to understand what is going on- and why. SYOT inside.


_Disclaimer: I do not own THG._

**SYOT is mentioned below.**

* * *

They said that there would be no more pain.

They said that there would be an end to misery, an end to sadness.

They said that nobody would be starving, and that we would have a voice.

They all lied.

They lied to me, they lied to themselves, and they lied to the world. Now, they are all blown up, and we are asked- no, forced- to give up two of our own for their sick little games. But I cannot say that I will not enjoy it. After all, there is so little to look forward to. Shouldn't everyone find amusement in observing the deaths of many _children_?

Sickening. It's sickening.

But this is our life now; this is what we have to live for. The plucking of our names, the peeling and pulling of paper out of a crystal ball, like my mother said they did for her. And I am bitter because of it, despite what had happened years before. Had they thought another revolt would save them? Had they believed that their Mockingjay was going to allow things to change? Had they thought that there was something kind within human souls?

Sure, the winners were the rebels. But that does not make them any better.

The rebels have the same degree of souls that their elders did.

My mother says that, often. She tells me that it is our own fault for choosing rebellion over acceptance. If there was any other outcome, I would disagree. But their hard-fought war ended with nearly the same principal.

Miss Katniss Everdeen voted for the continuation, and many backed her up. Mother said that, too. She told me that she was there, herself, taking notes about the occasion. I am unsure whether or not that it is true, but the fact is written in my history book, and all over my desk. She had _voted _for people to continue dying.

They did not actually start that for another seven years. She was eighteen, then, my Mother, and old enough that she only had to suffer through one 'reaping'. Her memories of that day are a grim thing to hear about; when she notes that the law was passed by President Hawethorne himself, I can do nothing but sigh.

'_It was sudden,' _she tells me, with her eyes touching the ground, lips trembling. _'They showed up, and, one day, we were being told that it was continuing. That they had rebuilt everything. Honestly, I don't think they ever tore it down.'_

She says that she is lucky, and I believe her. Missing the original Hunger Games by a few days, then being lucky enough to escape the reaping once more.

I, however, do not have that luck. I am born in the middle of it, and in the unfortunate time that keeps me in it longer than my friends, or so I think. And with my tesserae, the odds, unfortunately, are not in my favor.

They will never be.

I learned that fact soon after the birth of my twin brothers, when one is still-born, and the other cannot breathe upon life. He is tormented, tortured, and practically murdered into existence. And when he finally screams, a loud breathy sound, it is cut off short. Soon, he will not speak another word. It was my fault, for not grabbing the physician in time. My mother told me so, and I believe her.

On my fifth birthday, she is pregnant once more. This time, with triplets. I suppose that she would have kept me from her, but I am allowed close to these children, despite two of them being sent out for adoption. She tells me that she has done that before, when I was born. Apparently, I was one of _four_. They were shipped out to the Capitol, never to be heard of again. Maybe, just maybe, one of them will be the child of the Mellarks, or just maybe, the President's grandchild.

I am nearly positive that they are dead.

My triplets almost were. I know that for a fact, having run for a medical practitioner the moment that my mother told me to. The crinkly old man, who was technically a veterinarian, had pressed a hand to her stomach to declare that they were much too early for his liking. Then again, he did deal with horses, and other livestock. What did he know?

They arrived in the middle of the night, and I was awake the whole time. I think my mother fell asleep for some of it, though I'm not exactly sure. I was too busy attempting to get the room ready, fretting nervously. She had taken one look at me, and told me to leave.

I didn't leave, though.

I wasn't like my father.

I even held onto her hand, even though her squeezing fingers made my pale hand _red_. I didn't even complain. I just took a breath, and stared at her pretty brown eyes, grinning.

When I am eleven, she tells me that I will have to take out tesserae, since she had lost her job. At such a young age, I did not understand what she meant by that, but now I know. The fish weren't biting, and farms were no longer enticing for young males in need for a night to stay. It didn't help that I would have to be registered in the morning, making the Capitol aware of my existence. We had gotten away with being invisible, with her sharing with the world, but when they took down my name…

My mother said that they don't ask questions about names, though. She says that they will take my blood, and then we will be done, them already having a little bit of documentation about my existence.

When I am twelve, my best friend is sent to the Games. Needless to say, she does _not _make it out as the same person, or even out at all. She does, however, take out five other tributes before finally jumping onto a sword. It was on purpose, I know it. She has- had- that type of personality.

Weak, some might say. I say brave, in her own special way.

I suppose I am wrong. I usually am.

My mother said that to me, a few days ago. At fifteen, she makes sure that I know this, because she says that men are scum which will hurt me. And with me being an innocent girl, she insists it will happen.

It did happen to the world, anyway. We trusted the rebellion, and they shot us dead.

Debating this, I folded my fingers around a knot, tying it expertly before wrapping it around the goat's head. _They only kill, _I reflect, and pull the noose tighter so that it serves as a guide, with the cream-colored animal falling behind me in a slow trot. It bleats as we find the pathway, which is overrun with weeds and vines, the cracked stone barely showing beneath the midday sun. My thought, too, begin to shriek, and my bare feet dance along the cobblestones as we grow nearer to town.

They had hung us over their famous trees, slinging the knot tight with their words. And it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair to the cows, who are we.

My goat bleats again, rousing me from my thoughts. Thoughts which, all of a sudden, have swung me from my pedestal, reminding me that so many things could have been worse. My mother could beat me, or my brother could speak, and say cruel words to us all. But I am blessed, in my own way. Blessed to have found such a thing in my life as fate, to know that fate and I are not friends.

The goat is my friend, though. She is able to provide me with the milk that I desire, so early in the morning. And the butter, which I will make later with our leftovers, it tastes salty and sweet on my tongue.

But the goat will leave me, too.

When my bare feet make it in sight of our ragged farm, lopsided with moss and misshapen stones, I notice that the light is on in our house. Despite what many think about our family, we are a very quiet sort. Mother does not entertain guests until evening, and Giles keeps the twin and triplet asleep until mid-morning, when I can easily watch and tend to the stove.

Therefore, it is shock which is writ on my face, confusion taking hold of dark, wide eyes. Could we be in some sort of trouble? Did the Peacemakers decide that we had done something wrong?

It would not shock me. I did not work with them, but with my family, securing us a few cows and a goat, as well as planting grain. Although Giles was known as a very strong brander, he preferred to work on his own. We were poor by ourselves.

Had our young sister gotten into something? Or had silent Giles done wrong? He was fifteen, two years younger than I was. He could have angered another boy about a girl, since they all seemed to fawn over him. Apparently, the strong and silent type gained many likes.

Shaking my head free of the accusations, I stumble down the steep meadow, our goat still dancing at my heels. She is wobbling, unsure of where to step, which only hinders us for a few moments, because I am frightened as to what I will find. Could someone have gotten sick? Was she pregnant again?

It is nothing like that.

The stones catch my feet, and as I finally push open the cracked oak, watching as the shack creeps open, it is the sight of a Peacekeeper which strikes me silent. He is sitting with my mother, chewing on a rice cake, which was my pride and joy. With my entrance, he stands, and my mother does the same. Instead of shouting, though, she offers a strange grin, her stained lips pulling upwards.

"And there is Ayala with our milk!" she exclaims, and shifts the table over, making me aware of an extra table setting. Is that for me, or Giles? Or another?

It is for me, as I am told, with my hands pouring out the fresh milk, the chunky consistency warm as I deal it outwards. The animal dances back and forth, but is settled now, as I am myself.

The roughly made chair keeps me a bit restless, though. My feet shake, and my mother introduces us with a cheeky grin, while I observe the table setting. Flowers. "Ayala, my dearest deer, this is Oscar, the Peacekeeper." I see that the have given me a rice cake, as well as some syrup. He must have many riches, for syrup is rare. It is all I can do not to sip at it without drizzling it on my cake. "Oscar, this is Ayala, your daughter."

I have dripped the smooth liquid, watching as it dances across my grain. For a moment, I simply nod at him, content to believe that he is important, until his title is given. My father. A father!

"A pleasure, little deer," he murmurs with a grin, and gestures towards my goat. "And who's this?"

My eyes are still wide, and I take a brief second to register what was being said. A father! And with quite similar looks, I may add. That is rare. His eyes are large, too, with heavy lashes. The pleasant shape of his head is the same as mine- heart-shaped and pale. Our lips are both bowed, our hair is coarse and wavy. The only difference is that he is pretty, while I am passable.

"Artemis." Short, quick words escape my lips, and my mother takes up the conversation.

"Aya, love, can you go check on your sister? She's with Giles, but he has to leave for work."

My hands move to take the rice cake, and as it is placed in my lips, they travel towards the lead. However, she shakes her head. I leave the goat, and move swiftly to the back rooms of our humble home. They are more like closets, and, because of this, I can quickly shut the door and lean against the wood. Their voices are soft, dangerous.

"She'll have to be in the Games, Rachel. Do you understand that?"

"Why?" my savior snaps. "What'd she do wrong?"

"She can't exist. They can't exist. Giles is in there as well. Neither will come out."

I turn away at that, and it is like I know. But she continues, this time talking about the goat. "Will this save one?"

"The boy. Not her. She is weak."

I turn, and I am swept up into the arms of Giles, who must have heard part of the conversation. However, I swat him away, and move towards Orpah, the fawn of the family. She is twelve, and very tiny. I do not know why I am to care for her, as she does not need much care, but I do what I must.

Perhaps it is because she is very sickly.

Maybe it is because she is a legal child, to none other than the Head Peacekeeper. Is she the reason why I have to be reaped? Is it because of her that a goat can save our brother?

She gazes at me with her large blue eyes, and brown locks caress her oval face, with lips parting in an attempt to announce a greeting. But I ignore her, and drop the remainder of my cake in her lap, shrugging out of my large knitted coat. The boy, who is still watching us with frustration, simply shoves his way out of the room without even gesturing in farewell. And I, I care little, and sit on the bed that I share with the vile girl, crossing my fingers that by some fluke she volunteers to take my place.

I know that she won't, especially since reaping day is _today,_ leaving her little time to think. And she was a thinker.

I am doomed.

I am doomed when I plait our hair, combing my fingers through hers, and simply flipping my head upside down.

I am doomed when I place both of us into our light blue dresses, which are saved for this alone. Each year, we take them out, and I hem and fix to our mother's approval.

I am doomed when I take her hand, leading her into the city centre.

And, most of all, I am doomed when we stand apart from each other, no longer being documented as present. I watch with lonely eyes, as the girls around us chatter excitedly, wondering who will get picked. I know that they will not volunteer, as they are much too prissy, and I know that they expect a volunteer from the year-older girls desiring glory.

They do not expect me.

Eowyn, the escort, saunters onto the stage, her black hair bobbed and streaked with gold. It's strange, really, to see how animalistic they all strive to be. She even has antlers, and little gold swirls on her cheek. A deer. She's a deer.

Why?

Knowing that there _has _to be some sort of significance, I turn towards the stage, which is from an old barn, and I stare. The glass ball which holds our names is settled by her arm, and it looms over our heads, daring someone to express defiance. Nobody does, and her lips slide into a grin, lofty voice announcing, "Welcome to the 104th annual Hunger Games!"

That sinks in, and we all stare as a screen is lifted from the ground, now higher than both Eowyn and the glass ball. I do not wish to watch, but I suppose I must. It will only make me remember why I am put in there, and why I must win.

"The Hunger Games," the moving picture begins, and I see that the darkness is turning into a Mockingjay, the symbol of life. "It began as a way to force the different districts into submission, to tell us of our weakness."

As we watch, the pin is transformed into District 13, which is now as involved in the Games as we all are. It is the underground portion, with pictures of Katniss Everdeen, before she became Katniss Mellark. They are from the propo-times, when they were intending on winning the war.

"Our Mockingjay fought against this, but voted, in the end, to leave the Games. This time, they served for a different reason: to punish those unworthy, as decreed by Fate. They rid us of our weak, our punishable, our prisoners."

They show the full prisons, the children which are decreed to be bad. "I, your president, Gale Hawthorne, approve of this, as decreed by our Mockingjay. May the odds be ever in your favor, and may those in Fate's path prove their worth on the field."

I have seen this for years and years, though it still strikes me as odd. The words do not flow, and they are cut short. Was it too difficult to make it seem more romantic, or continue to talk about the past?

Apparently so, because Eowyn has already begun to pluck out the girls' names, which the glass ball has eagerly separated from the rest. My eyes are closed, now, and I am pleading repeatedly in my mind.

_Please, please, please. Let it be Orpah. Let it not be me._

"Ayala Welph."

Though there are tears in my eyes, I make my way to the stage, climbing the hay bales hesitantly. Her arm pulls me up, the arm that is somehow dotted with fur, actual fur. Grinning pleasantly to me, she pats my hand.

"Lovely, lovely. Now, the boys."

It is not going to be Giles. It cannot be. The goat was cared for, very well cared for.

There is a murmur in the crowd that prevents our escort from speaking, and it is with a sudden scream that we turn, both me and the strange woman.

Behind is is a goat, strung up like a hanged man. My eyes blink free of the tears, and I turn to see my 'father' in his glory, crossing his arms. He seems to be smug, though I cannot do much in response. He has done it. He has killed Giles, and will claim that he can do so without mercy. Why? Because the promised goat is gone. There went the deal.

But I am not to know about it, and therefore cannot bring myself to even squeal in response. I simply turn my head, expecting the name that falls off her lips.

"Giles Welph."

The world is not ready, and although there are a flurry of young girls willing to be tribute for him, none of the boys are fond of my brother. They will allow him to go to his death, and they will pick up the pieces of the broken-hearted girls.

He stands, mute and quiet, despite the fact that Eowyn is attempting to drag him into conversation. "Are you excited to be competing with your sister, Giles? Or scared?"

Her microphone is dangerously in his face. I roll my eyes, and speak slowly and carefully. "He's mute, Miss. Can't speak."

She is shocked, but does not say anything against it, instead making us shake hands, guiding us to the back.

And, in a quiet voice, I hear my brother in my ear, speaking the first things I have ever heard him say. "The odds are not in our favor."

* * *

**SYOT: **Although Ayala is the _main _character, I am accepting applications for other tributes. Also, I have to choices for this story. Either Aya is going to **lose**, or she will **win**. Therefore, submitting tributes _does _have an impact. No specific form is required. I will, however, need the basics: _name, age, appearance, tesserae or not, family, district_. Obviously, you can't be District 10.

**Other: **Since I prefer to write why I did specific things, this will be at the end of each chapter. You may skip it. I did count the years between stopping and starting the Hunger Games. We are assuming that Gale did it for a reason, perhaps for the fallen tributes, or the rebellious who died. Also: there is a reason that he is President. Nobody is that pure. Katniss showed us that. To continue, Orpah is named for a reason. Apart from the fact that she is named as a 'fawn', what do you think the significance is? You don't really have to respond, I'd just think it's funny if someone guessed.


End file.
